The Great
by Charmtion
Summary: "There is no light here – only darkness . . . only ghosts."


The moon catches the drapes at the archway and turns them silver. Small breeze, but the night is cool; he shivers beneath the heap of furs. Outside there is silence, beyond his door the guards utter no word nor grievance. He can hear only the dim rasp of his breath, the faint sweep of the drapes against the tiles. _Alone, awake, powerless_.

"So begins the fall of the conqueror," he breathes to himself, his voice thin and torn and fighting with his throat.

"You fell long ago, Alexander," murmurs a voice from behind the moonlit drapes. A soft voice, quiet; unassuming like cold water to an arid mouth.

"Is it you?" he breathlessly asks the darkness, the air, the ghosts that crowd him. "It is you?"

She appears before him like a sleepwalker in some distant dream. Her skin is paler than before, her hair a little darker, deeper, wild with flowers now instead of jewels. Her eyes burn bright still, an ocean in the darkness. She walks to him on steps made of air, her gown floating pure and white about her feet.

"You." His voice is quieter still.

She sits beside him on the bed. "Me." Quiet, soft; he cannot feel her breath. He reaches out a hand to trace her cheek. "You must leave this place."

"I cannot," he chokes. "Empire needs me. Arabia in the spring."

"You stumble about this place like a phantom," she says, her voice breaking, her eyes a map of untold worry, pity, agony. "There is no light here – only darkness . . . only ghosts." He closes his eyes at the feather-light touch of her thumb to his jaw. "Come with me now, Alexander. We'll fly this place."

"Will you . . . will you stay with me?" he asks softly, his eyes sombre. "Lay with me all the night . . . until – "

Before he has spoken, she is there. He feels the press of her body against his, her head beside his on the pillows, her fingers twined into the curls at the nape of his neck. Yet he feels none of her warmth, no whisper of her breath, no dull beat of her heart. His hand finds hers.

"I didn't think you'd come," he whispers. "Cassander said . . . he said . . . " He blinks furiously as tears mark his cheek. "I have hurt you, Charmeia, deeply, so, so deeply. I am sorry for it . . . so sorry."

Her eyes flood his as her forehead rests on his. "Hush, my heart," she murmurs. "It is a world of love and hate, my heart. You love to hate me as I hate to love you." She strokes the tear from his cheek, frowning. "Tears?"

"I am weary, Charm, so weary," he breathes. "Each thought that dances through my mind, each fear, each fancy, my very breath and blood – I am so tired of it all." He closes his eyes, the tears falling still. "All I have are memories now, memories that turn to dreams and demons . . . I am taunted by my own legend." His eyes open suddenly and meet hers with fierce sorrow. "And what will my legend be? Will I be _the Great_ forever? Will I be a liberator or a tyrant? A madman or a philosopher?" His mouth wavers. "Will I have a name at all?"

"Your name will echo in the halls of kings for as long as time is not ash." Her voice is quiet, trembling. He feels the faint coolness of her breath now. The chamber is drenched in moonlight, silver, dancing, glimmering. His head feels lighter, the pillow beneath his cheek soft-spun silk. "They will remember you as the greatest Alexander ever to have lived. A fine man, a fine king. Ruler of Macedonia, of Asia, Persia, Egypt. My king." She presses her lips to his forehead. "My king."

"Remember me as a man," he whispers after a moment. "A man as meagre and mortal as any other."

"You are not a great man," she says, her voice stronger now. "You are a colossus."

His fingers trace distantly her cheek now and she knows from the absence of his half-closed eyes that he is walking dimly to the boatman, and his coins are ready to be palmed. He stirs once more as he feels her move.

"Don't leave me now, Charmeia," he whispers, hoarse, frail. He tries to lift his head but can't. He is heavy, slack, drifting. "Charmeia. Please, Charmeia." He whimpers, but she is gone already and the tears are free-flowing at last.

ж

His eyes open to sunlight; silent save for the birdsong floating from the gardens outside. The room is light, the smell of death is gone. He leaves his bed as joyous as a child, walks through the archway and steps into the glare of the balcony. The stone is smooth beneath his feet. He looks to the gloom of the chamber behind him and then to the city that lies before him. The sounds rise in delight to greet him, the river, the soldiers, the men and women jostling, singing, shouting. Laughter. That sweet, sweet sound of laughter. He feels the urge to weep but smiles instead as he sees her.

She stands before him, in white silk, her hair a mass of inky curls down her back. She holds her hand out to him, and he steps over to take it.

"We'll fly this place," she says softly.

He hesitates for a moment. Again he glances back to the chamber, back to the gloom and ghosts, catches sight of the tarnished maps and hopes and unlived dreams laid out on the table by the archway, the etched lines of conquest, begotten glory – and he looks away. Forward, to her, to the light, to warmth and sun and laughter.

"Yes," he says finally, his voice strong again. He takes her hand. "Yes."


End file.
